Wordless by AdriAnne Strickland

law-abiding citizen were to see us. But I was betting on the likelihood that none of those would be here.
    “Where am I?” she asked.
    “Under the Old Bridge. There’s a roll of paper towels in your bag there. You might want to clean yourself off before you leave the truck.”
    She fished around awkwardly in the garbage for the roll, avoiding the use of her right hand. Fumbling to tear off a paper towel, she ended up only ripping a sheet in half.
    “Don’t just stand there, help me!” she said with audible frustration.
    I stared at her over folded arms. They probably looked more intimidating than necessary, especially since they were bare, but my white jacket was wadded up underneath her. “Maybe you’re used to having everything handed to you in the Athenaeum, but I just risked a shit-ton to get you out of there. I’m still taking a risk, as far as I know. And I’m not even sure why, but have I demanded answers? No! So the least you can do is give me a simple please or thank you with your demands.”
    She looked up in surprise, her eyes shining more than usual before she went back to studying the paper towel roll. “Thank you. I’ve been so absorbed in the larger situation, I overlooked … ”
    Me . Instead, I said, “Common courtesy? Better yet, deep gratitude?”
    Her voice went cool again. “I said thank you.”
    And I hadn’t demanded answers—yet. “You’re welcome. So, what exactly is the ‘larger situation’?”
    “I can’t tell you right this second. Just … please, help me. I can’t even see where I have blood, and I can’t … ” She gestured with her Frankenstein hand. Drey had told me Dr. Frankenstein’s story, and of course it was one I’d remembered.
    I sighed, then sat back down in front of her and took a few towels in my hand. I paused after lifting them to her perfect face. “I’m going to have to touch you, just so you know.”
    “Really,” she said flatly.
    “I’ll try to avoid jabbing your thumb and ankle, but I make no promises.”
    Of course, I wiped her off as gently as if she were one of the creatures I found left for dead. Maybe too gently, because she had some stubborn patches of dried blood on her cheek. I held a towel to her full lips, trying not to think about what it would feel like to kiss them.
    “Spit,” I said.
    She stared at me. “What?”
    “Spit,” I repeated. “Unless you want my spit on your face.”
    Looking skeptical, she spit barely enough into the towel to suffice, which I rubbed into her cheek.
    “That’s disgusting,” she said as I scrubbed.
    “No, it’s useful in a pinch. Let me guess, you don’t have spit in the Athenaeum.”
    She opened her mouth to say something that probably wouldn’t have been friendly, but before she could, we heard a voice echoing under the bridge: “What is going on here?”
    Thank the Gods I recognized the voice. The woman it belonged to certainly wasn’t law-abiding.
    “Chantelle!” I said, vaulting out of the back of the truck. “It’s me, Tavin.”
    Chantelle stood in front of me, wearing a leather jacket over a red miniskirt and heels. Not that I really noticed; at least, not in that way. She was old enough to be my mother, and usually acted like a mother whenever I stopped by to talk to her, telling me to eat well and stay out of trouble—and to stay away from the younger ladies. She was as bad as Drey.
    She’d come out of what had been a utility room under the bridge, which was now sort of a communal break room used by all the ladies. “Tavin! What are you doing here, honey? Shouldn’t you be on your route with Drey?”
    “Uh, I’m doing something different today.” Which was an understatement. I didn’t know how to elaborate, so I tried to change the subject. “What about you? You’re up late.”
    She rolled her heavily made-up eyes. “Yeah, well, business ran late. Don’t you hate those last-minute—who’s that?”
    I turned. Behind me, Khaya was trying to climb down from the